Coming Soon: Literary Revelations Publishing House

Coming soon: Literary Revelations Publishing House

Dear Readers,

It is with utmost pleasure I announce that the Literary Revelations Publishing House will open soon. It will be up and running in early November of this year.

Literary Revelations honors the memory of my mother whose passion for literature knew no limits.  

I owe a great debt of gratitude to both my parents. However, it was my mother’s love for languages, literature, and arts that permeated every fiber of my being starting very early in my childhood. That love has never left me.

I am happy to tell you that Literary Revelations has already manuscripts under consideration, and it will open with a call for an anthology. Literary Revelations will feature a poetry journal and provide services for authors such as marketing, reviews, and Spanish translations staring January 2023.

Please watch this space for more updates and the launching of the press’ website. Follow me on Twitter @shortprose1.

Have a glorious weekend everyone and let me know if you have any questions.

Below please find a paragraph describing Literary Revelations’ mission.

Literary Revelations Mission Statement [excerpt]

Our mission is to feature emerging and established authors of poetry and fiction.

We publish most poetry genres: epic, lyric, narrative, or prose poetry.  We expect work that dazzles the intellect, and delights the soul; work that makes feelings blossom into symphonies of love, beauty, and sorrow. Interpret the silence. Find the place where love was born, and tears are entombed. Be the voice of prophets. Be the soft whisper of Sakura.

Dream, create, suggest. Avoid cliches. Avoid the banal and the explicit, even if both have become trendy.  Remember “To define is to kill. To suggest is to create.” (Stéphane Mallarmé).  

We also publish fiction such as mystery, romance, fantasy, and other types. We do not publish erotica.

Remember a novel is not the mere act of outlining one thing after another. We do not look for tables of contents. We want you to love, and to suffer, with your characters.  To remember the importance of the landscape, and to look over your shoulder where the unknown lies.  Embrace it. Remember what Jorge Luis Borges said: “When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation.”

Make sure you get everything right.

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020

The Blue Jay’s Feather by Gabriela Marie Milton #short story #literature

Image: Gabriela Marie Milton, 2022, Interior of Capela dos Ossos, Évora

Autumn. The day after Helen left for Madeira. The city’s noises vanish in a moribund sun. A paraffin lamp burns on a glass table. The light trickles on the walls like water. There is something familiar about this room. Vague scents of dried flowers. Tear-like motifs on the walls.

I hear footsteps.
I shudder.

Miguel, let’s get out of here.

He put his hand over my month.

Laughter comes from upstairs. It’s Jacques’ laughter. His and the laughter of a woman. She is not Helen. It can’t be her. Helen left yesterday. What am I thinking? The laughter can’t be Jacques’ either. He is dead. Jacques is dead.

The smell of the dried flowers Helen put on his coffin on the day of his funeral invades my nostrils.

I pull away from Miguel’s arms, my soul dark, the tightness in my throat stronger. In a mirror I replace my image with that of my mother. My voice is not mine anymore.

Miguel, with you or without you, I am getting out of here. Where is the door?

He bites his upper lip.

Anastasia, I know you are surprised.

I am enraged.

Surprised? Who? Me? If Winston Churchill would walk in this room right now, wearing Josephine Baker’s famous top hat instead of his, and Bottega Veneta stiletto sandals I would not blink an eye. From now on until the end of my days I swear nothing is going to surprise me anymore.

The light from his eyes vanishes.

Anastasia, how many times have you asked me for the truth?

I shout.

Oh, the truth. Stories masquerading reality: the plot, the characters, the setting, the conflict, the theme. Spare me the banalities. I do not need your truth anymore. I want to get out of here. There are dead people in here, or ghosts, or whatever. I want out.

Anastasia…. Listen…

The geometry of the space changes. Through a little square cut from nothingness, I see a lonely blue jay feather floating in the sky.

Paraffin and dried flowers.

Was Jacques dead?

*draft – modified version of The Blue Jay’s Feather, a piece published in my #1 Amazon Bestselling Book: Woman: Splendor and Sorrow I: Love Poems and Poetic Prose.

Announcements:

  • I wrote in a previous post that I was going to launch a new project in mid-October. Thank you to all my followers who expressed interest. The launching may come a bit later due to circumstances that are out of my control. Please be patient. Much love to all of you.

  • I am deeply grateful to everyone who reads and supports my work. Your likes, comments and shares brighten my days. Thank you to those of you who brought to my attention that my posts are getting reproduced on some WP sites on their entirety without my permission and without any links to my original work. To the very few of my followers who do that a gentle reminder for now: unauthorized use and/or duplication of my posts without express and written permission from me is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. Thank you.

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020.

Young Autumn by Gabriela Marie Milton #poetic prose #short story #literature

image: Gabriela Marie Milton

Lethargic trees, nights dripping verses in our bed, Baudelaire’s ennui silhouetted against my soul. A young autumn, breasts stuck to the moon, cloudy eyes caught between sunrise and sunset.

There are too many eyes in this place: mine, yours, those of the portraits and the photographs on the walls, why do we have so many portraits and photographs?

Facing the armoire, left arm under your head, you sleep. Black dahlias invade the bedroom. I listen to the sound of nothingness.

I sit in front of the computer. On the screen, Sebastian’s letter.

Anastasia, I have no idea why Jacques fell in love with you. Your mild manners, your lipstick always in the right place, banal essences of Coco Channel on your clothes. Why do you dress in black all the time? Oh, wait, I know, Baudelaire, À une passante,  

La rue assourdissante autour de moi hurlait.
Longue, mince, en grand deuil, douleur majestueuse,
Une femme passa, d’une main fastueuse
Soulevant, balançant le feston et l’ourlet

That’s the way you got Jacques. Soft black fabrics, mixtures of innocence and mysteries, the majestic air of an untouchable nun burning with desires.

I try fitting in one of your dresses. Why do you pick taffeta all the time? It’s so yesterday.

I look down. Ravishing view from your balcony. The moon bathes in the water, nightingales sing, the air is soft like the touch of a virgin… Beauty and then forever night… How I long for the forever night… the black of your dresses…

I am not in our bedroom anymore. I hang onto the balustrade of my condo’s balcony. Void. Impulses of self-destruction. I taste their ashes.  A mannequin floats in the air. I am scared…

Jacques’ arms wrap around my shoulders.

Anastasia what are you doing in front of the computer?  It’s 3am. Back to bed.

Sebastian….  Sebastian’s letter on the screen…. Read it.

What letter, love? There is no letter on the screen. There’s a website that says, “Travel to Corsica.”

*draft

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020.

September Love by Gabriela Marie Milton #poem #poetic prose #short prose

2022, Somewhere in Southern Europe, photo Gabriela Marie Milton

September Love – poetic

September again, my steps heavier, my hips moving with the same uncertainty they did during the time when the child was conceived.  Barefoot I trampled grapes in a red vat, my dress rolled above the knees, my hair in a bun. The crisp smell of broken Gamay Noir penetrates my nostrils. The first release of the fall juices.  Echoes muffled by the cracking of corn roasting on the fire.

I hurt. I miss you desperately. Perhaps you’ve never returned from that September when we first met. Sighing leaves, sobbing skies, cold hands looking to ignite fires. A tango coming from nowhere coiling like a snake around our bodies.  Sweet forehead kisses. On my neck, somnolent bruises covered by makeup.

I cannot stand anymore Victorian self-righteousness, fake politeness – “I apologize for interrupting, I came to slit your throat” – people who speak about gratitude without practicing it, questionable advisers who have proliferated like false parasol mushrooms after the rain. They make me sick. The tragicomedy of this world.  Poetica, Aristotle. Remember?

Here we go again: young, books under our arms, love burning our eyes until we could see beyond the limits of September, philosophy burning our souls, trademarks of Friday afternoons on our skin.  Roman columns reaching the sky at the exact hour when we interlinked our consciousnesses. Pears ripening in trees, branches burying themselves in the earth. Spread at the base of the columns our heated bodies ready to fly. We were not supposed to ever come back.

Why did we, my love?

I steal words from September’s iconostasis. I sew them in a field of dahlias.  I wash my hands and my feet. You take the corn from the fire. The child plays. Blue and white awnings murmur in the wind. The child. The sunrise of the first I love you.

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020.

Fear of Death – poem by Gabriela Marie Milton #poetry

Image: Shutterstock

The following is a fragment from my poem Fear of Death published in my collection Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings (Vita Brevis Press, 2020).

ah, I forgot to tell you when I meet you in my dreams
Arabella still sells bracelets in the silver market
she asks me every time about you
while lizards run their greens into the nearby parkette
I lie and promise her you’ll come next time
to buy another bracelet and some juicy limes

now in the silence of long purple nights
the silver bracelets do not hurt my flesh at all
but every minute you are not with me
cuts yet another wound
into my soul

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020.

The Miracle of You by Gabriela Marie Milton in English & Spanish #poem #poetry

image: Shutterstock

Dear Readers,

I am developing a new project that will further promote the writings of our literary community. It’s an extremely demanding and complex project, and I am very excited about. New updates in a month or so.

Furthermore I am preparing a new book; an English-Spanish bilingual edition of my poems. The poem below, The Miracle of You, is included. I hope you enjoy the English, as well as, the Spanish version.

The Miracle of You

the moon’s right-hand
pours soul into my flesh
pigeons’ wings bring scents of lilac blooms
the air gets drunk with poetry
statuary women of the water
flaunt their hair

within the loneliness of you
my heart
rotates five equinoxes on a wooden spindle
your eyes pour flesh into my soul
my body germinates the sounds of growing leaves
I wash my hands into the waters of Guadalquivir
in the scented night of those who never sleep
I say
I love you
and in one single breath
our wedding is transformed
in an enraptured death

Fuiste tú el milagro

La mano derecha de la luna
vierte alma dentro de mi carne,
los aleteos de las palomas traen aromas de lilas en flor,
el aire se emborracha de poesía,
imaginarias mujeres del agua, sirenas,
alardean de cabello.

Dentro de tu soledad
mi corazón
gira cinco equinoccios  cual uso de madera,
tus ojos vierten carne dentro de mi alma,
mi cuerpo germina los sonidos de hojas que brotan,
lavo mis manos en las aguas del Guadalquivir
en la perfumada noche de aquellos que nunca duermen.
Digo
“te quiero”
y en solo un respiro
nuestra boda se convierte
en un morir de éxtasis
¿Fue la luna?
¿Fue el aroma de mayo?
Quizás fuiste tú el milagro.

Good luck to everyone who starts school or whose children are starting school. The summer is about to end in the Northern hemisphere.

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Prize Nominee
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.), Experiments in Fiction, 2022.
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose, Vita Brevis Press, 2021.
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings, Vita Brevis Press, 2020.

Rien Que Pour Toi by Gabriela Marie Milton

image: Shutterstock

[From my poetry collection Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose.]

Between the bed and the window, in that space that smells roses and rien que pour toi, the morning lets her hair down.  She is so close that I can reach her skin with the tip of my fingers. 

I know … his book and the fame it brought him. The book in which he made me – the me that he imagined – the main character.

He was fascinated by the purple of my makeup and the yellows of my cobra, who used to erect the upper portion of her body to greet him every time he visited. 

I do not know what demons he tried to exorcise. In the heat of those summer afternoons, he used to sip his sangria and attempt to find almost religious justifications for what he called my ecstatic existence; an existence populated with the richness and succulence of the Mediterranean literature and void of bullet points.

His acute shyness and his need to overcome the incapacity to love beyond nightly adventures used to ring in my ears like some unhinged marimba lamenting the loss of a pipe.

The dress that I wear in page twenty-seven. That dress and the heart-shaped red stone pierced with a hole for the suspension I used to wrap around my neck.  I found that stone in a churchyard.

I was too young. Perhaps an older version of me would have made him a better writer. Do not laugh. You are too handsome when you laugh.

In the end, he managed to do something special. He invented the name of a perfume and made me wear it on every page of his book: rien que pour toi. I hid his book somewhere in the library. Yet, every morning, in the space between the bed and the window, it still smells rien que pour toi.

On August 2021 Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose became a #1 Amazon bestseller. My deepest thanks to everyone who bought my book.

#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.)
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings

Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow by Jeff Flesch – reviewed by Gabriela Marie Milton

publisher Experiments in Fiction

Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow, by Jeff Flesch, is a superb collection whose pages are saturated with poetic intelligence.  The author builds a magnificent correspondence between the natural realm and the spiritual one, without making use of language techniques most symbolists employ(ed), preferring the un-revealed/the unknown to the revealed/the known. In Jeff’s poetry nature does not need any intermediary to speak to the soul and vice versa.

Nature has always provided a feast for senses. In this collection nature provides more than the aromas of daisies and lavender, or the silhouette of the willow tree projected against the sky. It provides a journey of self-discovery which ultimately leads to a better understanding of the self.

The message is clear. The more you understand nature, the more you understand yourself.

I dance to the tune of the moon/learning more about nature/and the aspects/of self/hidden under the trees in bloom/

The identification of the movement of natural elements with love is one remarkable element of Jeff’s poetry.  

while I sit and I listen/to the clouds bursting wide open:/a deluge, like the love I feel for you/

Sometimes nature plays a restorative role and other times it becomes part of the author’s sorrows: pebbles always underfoot, while salt/ stings my eyes/always being told boys don’t cry/ pain is deep… or/and part of his love: finding the center/of a love both soft and cherished//as apples bow trees/ know that you always have been true to me:/

In the last piece included in this collection we find one of Jeff’s beliefs which serves not only as a closing argument but also as a direct way a expressing the idea that time heals everything.

At the end, we set sail on the winds of time/and let go the pain we’d held inside.

I find it interesting that despite the restorative capacity of nature, and its intimate link with the human soul, the ultimate healing does not come from nature. It comes from time.  A change of perspective that adds new depths to Jeff’s book.

Nature Speaks of Love and Sorrow is an astonishing collection. Jeff’s poetry not only delights the soul. Equally it delights the intellect. It is a must have. No one will regret reading it.  

Gabriela Marie Milton
Pushcart Nominee

#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women (ed.)
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings

From Woman: Splendor and Sorrow – Who Am I? poem by Gabriela Marie Milton

Gustav Wertheimer – The Kiss of the Siren , Public Domain

Who Am I? published first by Shabd Aaweg and republished in my book Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose.

For five times in twenty-four hours, I face in the direction of the sea.

The first time the morning star floats above the water as innocent as the breast of a young girl.  Soon the sun will try to catch her naked and burn her skin. She will escape. Pigeons will carry her across the sea. She will melt into yellow waters. Her last rays will fall in my lap like feathers.

I will rejoice.

The second time, divorced from her night bed, the light disperses itself on the shore. I can see myself washing clothes in the sea. My hair is tied in a ponytail. I am barefoot, and my dress is rolled up. The skin of my lips is cracked. I bleed. The clothes I wash smell cedar and spices. The shadow of a seagull positions itself on my forehead. The sea reflects the twelve signs of the zodiac. I can see no relationship between my destiny and that which I do. I am scared.  

At noon, the sun kneads the waters with rapture. Shells shed pearls on the shore. My own rational thought leaves my body. I delight in the waves like a gazelle in the grasslands. I feel the movement of the water on my skin. Its cyclical quality sends me in a state of ecstasy. No, it is not the ecstasy of Saint Teresa of Ávila. It is something similar to a soporific trance. I am dead, and I am alive at the same time. I come from the sea. I return to the sea.

In the afternoon, my rational self awakes. My mind spreads its wings. I get preoccupied with verbs. I set one triangle in the normal position, and I invert the other one. I bind them together. I make myself a dress from pieces of paper inscribed with old symbols. Oh, femininity! You are the goddess of vines, the mother earth, the chalice, the blood, the fertility of the womb. I mull over these desperate efforts to equalize the feminine with the masculine. There is nothing in these symbols that points to the intellect of a woman.

In the evening, the sky stretches itself from blue to dark violet. The silk of the gloves hugs my fingers. I feed my iguana with cookies soaked in champagne. She hisses at me. I open a package of silk stockings. The door opens by itself. You step in. I stare at you. You are in by your own volition.  One kiss and you borrow my tears. One touch, and I borrow your pain. A passage rite. I keep a coffin adorned with lilies in my bedroom. I sleep besides death like Sarah Bernhardt.

Did you hear that noise? A rosary fell from the Spanish chest.

The wind slips between the petals of a rose and opens it.

Who am I? If I knew, I would tell you.

Did you say you love me? The twenty-four hours are up. Nobody is facing in the direction of the sea anymore.

There is no me.

Gabriela Marie Milton
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings

Of Wounds By Gabriela Marie Milton #poem #poetic prose #short prose

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

I cannot tell which of the wounds I acquired hurts the most. I gather all of them in a large wicker basket. Every summer morning I sort them out. I re-live each of them.

I see how the Lie walks hand in hand with the Betrayal, and how the Betrayal indulges herself in the sweetest of wine. Oh, that irresistible taste of black grapes that melts in her mouth. It almost makes her attractive.

The Envy wears red lipstick and high heels. She dances naked on a wooden table. At every turn, she spreads poisonous confetti in the air, and lowers her eyes. I try to decipher the meaning of her gestures. I cannot.

The Greed, with her childbearing hips, indulges herself with poor souls who live at the margins of the city. The children are hungry, and the mother long exhausted. The beds are cold. The moonlight enters the room through broken windows.

I feel the pulse in my temples. Exhausted I go over the meaning of love and sacrifice. I try to restore them to the right place.

Love is the consummation of all acts leading to the warm meal one hands to an old man during winters. It is the sum of all unknowns. It is the finger that draws stars in the darkest of skies.

Sacrifice? You tell me.

Sightly revised version of the original published in Women: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose

Gabriela Marie Milton
#1 Amazon Bestselling Author
Books:
Woman: Splendor and Sorrow :I Love Poems and Poetic Prose
Passions: Love Poems and Other Writings